Composing Harmony
by Simply Shelby
Summary: Before the 'Once Upon a Time' and after the 'Hapily Ever After' and everything in between. A drabble series focusing on the relationships of the film.
1. Windchimes

**Windchimes  
By Simply Shelby**

"Music moves people," his mother tells him one night, hand in his hair, as he is busily scribbling out the last notes for the night. "It harmonizes with thier emotions and pulls. Like the moon pulls the tide." August finishes with a flourish, his marker swinging upwards, and he smiles at his mother. She is frowning, her face a picture of something August has never known. "But," she's whispering now, "Not very many people listen."

"You did," the boy's smile is so blindingly wide and he is quick to defend his mother. He's been defending his parents for as long as he can remember. 'You heard the music and you followed."

Her heart broke at his words and her hand stilled in his floppy hair. His beautiful, burning, misplaced faith in her and Louis drove her to explain, "Not for a long time, honey. For a long time I didn't hear anything but silence." Her tone is guilty, pleading. But she looks at him and realises that he doesn't expect explanations, excuses, apologies. Just his parents.

"Professor Fletcher says," he starts and glances over as his father settles himself against the doorjamb, "that sometimes the sound of silence is just what we hear while we're waiting for the right tune to follow."

His mother makes a noise of joy and sorrow and love and pulls him into a tight embrace. He hugs her back fiercely, burying his face into the crook of her neck, smelling the light scent of perfume and feeling wanted, whole, loved. When he speaks again, his voice is small and tight and thankful, "You heard. You heard me. And you found me."

His father is still hanging back against the door, watching with understanding eyes. The same eyes that had watched August in the park as he had played, as they had played, as he had turned back as he was walking away. The same eyes that August had seen and had known and had wished and had wanted to belong to his father. The man whispered to him, his voice lilting like lyrics in a lullaby, "And you, August?"

August pulled back from his mother and put his hands on her cheeks, his palms soaking the salty tears. He looked into her eyes, licked his lips, and whistled. Lowly and softly and he looked at the windchimes hanging outside his window. "Windchimes," he answered, meeting his father's gaze. "There were windchimes at the place I grew up. I could hear them from my bed."

Lyla froze and looked up at Louis. She had heard those windchimes. She had sat on his bed and had listened to the same windchimes that had lulled her baby to sleep. Windchimes had lulled her baby to sleep because she hadn't been there to do it. He met her eyes, understood, and stepped forward.

The next moment, they were all together on the bedroom rug, wrapped up in each other. "Then Mr Jeffries told me there was a whole world of windchimes. And so I followed them."


	2. Past

**Past  
By Simply Shelby**

She flips the light on.

And promptly slaps a hand over her mouth as she finds someone sitting at the kitchen table. "Louis!" she breathes and he blinks painfully at the sudden appearance of light. "Louis, what are you doing?"

He rolls a shoulder. "Dunno, really."

She fills the kettle with water from the tap and sets it on the quickly heating stove, her movements slow and thoughtful. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," his voice lilts and shakes a bit, but his words ring true, "Better than fine. Indescribable."

Her hand freezes in the motion of taking out two mugs from the cupboard. Mismatched cups. One from his life and one from hers. Their old lives coming together to make new. "I gave music lessons," she tells him suddenly, "I couldn't play music, so I taught it. I taught other mothers' children how to play music and grieved because I would never get to teach mine."

He gazes at her for a long moment, head tilted to the side and his chin resting in his palm. His eyes trace her face--the point of her nose, the high line of her cheekbones, the curve of her lips--and trail down the outline beneath her pale nightdress.

She blushes pleasantly, ducking her head, and pours the boiling water over the teabags. "I--" she hears him murmur and turns back around.

Misery and guilt and defeat are written across his features, plain as day. "I had a career," he confesses, "I had a girlfriend." He pauses to wince at her reaction, but she is silent and unjudging. "I had to forget," he tells her in a pained whisper. "I played and played, but it didn't matter. You couldn't hear me."

"So you stopped." It is something she understands all too well.

He takes a deep breath. In and out. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." His voice breaks and his face is cradled in his hands. She moves forward, setting a cup of strong, black tea on the table in front of him. He glances at the mug, then looks up at her. Just looks at her with endless eyes and asks in a strong brogue, "Anything stronger?"

And she looks back and him and simply nods.

A tumbler of whisky is set in front of him. He takes a sip--good Irish, too--and downs the rest like a shot. Breathing in deeply, he feels the alcohol burning against his throat, steadying him in the present.

And, suddenly, his lap is full of Lyla and her mouth is sliding against his. The chair is tipping and he plants his feet firmly on the linoleum floor and throws his arms around her to keep them from smashing to the floor. Their mouths move, hands move, hearts move in tandem. They break apart and she lays her forehead against his.

"Come to bed," she requests, softly, almost whining.

"Mmmm," he murmurs and points out, "August is sleeping."

She nods, her nose bumping against his, "We'll just have to be quiet, then." She stands, tugging on his hand like an impatient child and he indulges her, indulges himself. Because the past is the past and they are together now and that's all that matters.

A different sort of music is made that night.


	3. Reckoning

**Reckoning  
By Simply Shelby**

The stars are glittering in the pitch sky, like a veil of diamonds covering Central Park.

People are speaking, explaining and arguing. Their voices are rising and dropping and reaching different tones according to emotion. His mother, _his mother_, is crying and gesturing and not really making much sense between her tears. The musician from the park, Louis, is standing with his hand on her shoulder and speaking to her in a soothing voice that is meant to make her calm down, but unintentionally makes her angrier.

Mr Jeffries is there, partly blocking his view of the couple, speaking plainly to his mother the way he'd spoken plainly to August those six months ago. And she's telling him over and over, "He's my son. He's _my_ son. He's my _son_." The words make him feel protected, like a warm blanket wrapped tightly enough around him to make him into a cocoon.

"Yes," Mr Jeffries agrees, "But he doesn't know that." But August did know. He'd known it the moment he'd turned around on stage and seen her standing there, watching. She really was beautiful. All dressed in white. Like a bride, August knew. Her touseled hair was like a halo, glinting gold and even with her red-rimmed eyes, she was the most glorious creature he'd ever seen. She looked like someone who had been lost for such a long time and had finally found where she belonged. Determination and desperation sings in her voice.

He closes his eyes and breathes, listening to the soft sound reverberate through his lungs. Hope is suddenly beside him, her presence as soft as the angel she is. "So," she says bluntly, "You got parents."

He nods jerkily, but doesn't speak. He can feel his throat closing up with emotions he can't put names to and doesn't even know if he can speak.

Her voice is gentler now, awed, "They heard you."

His eyes snap open, but she is being shepherded away by the Reverend. Mr Jeffries is making his way towards August, the couple following at a reserved pace. "Evan?" Mr Jeffries asks and August doesn't correct him, can't correct him because that's technically his name even if it's not who he is. So, he just nods, looking between his social worker and the two musicians. "Evan, this is--"

But his mother was impatient, too impatient for needless introductions. She'd been waiting too long for this. They'd both been waiting too long. She broke away from the man and scooped August up into her arms, burying her face in his hair. He felt her tears soak into his scalp. He felt his tears, too, and overcome with all different sorts of emotions, he murmured, "You heard. You heard. You came. You heard."

She nods her head against his, pulling him even closer than before. Cocooning him physically, as she had done mentally before with her words. He felt loved, wanted, whole. He wanted to cry and to laugh and soon he was doing both. She pulls back and simply looks at him before joining. They giggle and laugh and their hearts sing in some sort of harmony, tears gliding down their faces. Tears of joy, but also tears of sadness for having lost so many years together.

And a promise to never be apart again.

He's still hanging onto Lyla's hand when Louis joins them.

Lyla is shivering slightly and her cheeks are pink from the cold. Louis strips off his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders and she smiles her thanks at him, tears still falling. But her smile is brilliant and warm. Seeing it makes Louis feel whole. It makes him feel right. Okay. Alive.

He bends down in front of his son and meets his eyes. Things are simple between them. They have a quiet understanding. "You didn't quit." Pride shines through in his voice and he hopes this August Rush picks up on it, like he has picked up on so many other things.

The boy shrugs, "I had a little faith," he reiterates Louis's words in that soft voice of his, "Nothing bad happened."

Louis looks away and shakes his head, "I... I can't believe..." he looks back up, "Julliard?"

August nods once.

Another thought hits him, "That man? The one by the payphone?" He doesn't have to complete the question aloud. It amazes him that he and the boy are so much alike that their thoughts intertwine. He's reminded of their fluid, impromptu duet and wonders if this is what it's like to be a father.

The boy nods again, this time drawing into himself. His fear is obvious and Louis promises himself that he's going to kill the man and the boy's eyes widen at the thought. But, he seems somehow comforted and says a quiet, "Thank you."

Louis ruffles the boy's hair, almost unconsciously, out of affection. "Hey, kid, I'm your da."

August looks up to meet Lyla's eyes, smiling unabashedly, joy revealed in his own eyes. "D'you reckon I should believe you?"

Louis laughs refelexively and opens his arms and August falls against his chest, one hand still clinging to his mother. "Yeah, kid," his father tells him, "I reckon you should."


End file.
